ONE WAY SPLIT
by Terence Butler

I’d known for a long time that I would kill Mr. Huggs, but the morning the heroin arrived from L.A. I decided the time had come. The hard part was not doing it immediately, with the insulting shit he was saying to me and the suitcase on the table behind his desk holding uncut Afghan junk worth millions on the street.

Humility is not one of my strong points, but common sense is, so I left my piece where it was and tuned him out while he ranted. Mr. Huggs was long winded and inventive so I had time to lay out the bare bones of a plan in my mind while he called me names and blamed me for his own fuckups. I couldn’t do anything rash because I knew the smack was fronted to him, and the L.A. bosses would come to me first after he was dead. I needed to hide it and sit on it for awhile before I used it to become a rich, rich man.

So I just sat quietly and nodded my head at the right moments, agreeing that I was a faggot cocksucker, or shaking it back and forth when asked if I could think of any reason he shouldn’t just have his apes beat me to death and shove my dick in my mouth.

Today’s tirade was about a job that a couple of those simians had messed up. He wanted me to find out what the truth was, collect whatever money they hadn’t stolen from him already and punish them good. Then I should get my untrustworthy ass back here and start breaking the heroin down, cutting it with laxative and vitamin C, getting it ready to sell to the Black and Latin gangs for tons of bucks. 

I needed operating cash for the plan that was unfolding in my head though, and now I knew where to get it. Step-by-step was the way to work. Mr. Huggs could eat his insults when I had his part of the plan in place.

A smile spread across my face as I pictured myself returning later and blowing Mr. Huggs’ brains all over the wall behind his desk. I saw it in detail; how his fat jowls would quiver when he saw my gun, how he’d spit out whatever food he’d inevitably be cramming down his gullet, how his greasy hair would flop down over his sweaty mug when he fell to his knees and begged for mercy, his hairy paws clasped in a prayerful pose for the first time since he’d been kicked out of St. Paul’s school for robbing the convent, and how--well, I was wandering, lost in previews of his death when I realized he was bellowing my name.

“Billy! What the hell are you smiling at, you worthless piece of shit?”

I got to my feet slowly. Not so slowly that he might think I was disrespecting him, but slowly enough that he would get the point that it was time for him to stop treating me like a kick dog. I stared at him for a couple of beats, my smile gone like a distant memory, and I said, “Nothing, boss. Just thinking about how I’m going to get revenge. On those two morons, I mean. I better get right on it.”

I walked to the door and put my hand on the knob and turned back toward him. I swept my eyes over the black suitcase, nodded at the dead man and walked out into the South of Market noise.

*

“What you doing, Billy?”

“Writing a will.”

“Wha-at?”

“Hey. One never knows.”

“You planning on dyin’?” Dicky’s idea of dry humor.

I looked up at him and got hold of his shifty eyes with mine. I sighed so he’d know he was bugging me. He turned off the dumb grin and frowned at the ground in front of him.

“It’s a thing called a holographic will, Dicky,” I carefully explained. “It holds up in court if you die suddenly. As long as it’s dated and signed in your own handwriting, it’s a legal will. In California it doesn’t even need a witness.”

“Oh, yeah, I seen a hologram at the Exploratorium when we went there in middle school.”

Dicky shaves his head and wears a chest protector beard and too many earrings. He looks like a psycho criminal until he grins, and then he looks like a rotten little kid who’ll probably turn out to be a psycho criminal. He wiggled his tattooed meatball of a body like a puppy with a biscuit and gurgled, “It was cool! It was Abraham Lincoln!”

I kept writing, hoping I wouldn’t have to explain the difference between the will and the photograph to him. It would take too long and make me too nuts. Dicky was on my shit list anyway, and I wasn’t sure how far my patience would stretch.
Just then the guy we were there to see drove up and saved me from all that. I put the notebook in my shirt pocket and got up from the park bench. I watched Marvin Spiegler hurry up the steps of the tall, narrow, cotton-candy-pink Victorian we’d been watching from across the street in Precita Park. He entered the middle door, the one that goes to the top flat. I gave him as much time as I thought it should take him to climb all those stairs and then I turned to make sure Dicky was ready.

It’s hard to believe how far a man can get his index finger up his nose if he’s really concentrating.

I slapped him, hard. He cringed away but left his finger where it was.

“Shit, Billy,” he said, and then looked at the booger he’d retrieved and wiped it on the park bench. I felt like I wanted to kill him, but I would get around to that later. Just then I needed him to get me into the building.

“We’re going upstairs now, Dicky. Are you ready? Good. You go first.”

I didn’t give him a chance to talk, I just spun him the right way and shoved him toward the street. I followed on his heels, sticking close, because if this went bad I could use him as a shield. I talked in his ear as we walked.

“We’ll go up the front steps and you ring the bell by the middle mailbox. When he answers you say, ‘It’s me, Dicky.’ That’s all. Don’t tell him I’m with you, or say anything else. You got that?” He nodded, started to talk. “Shut up,” I said.
We mounted the porch steps. Dicky naturally went for the wrong button. I knocked his hand away and pushed the middle one myself.

Marvin’s voice sounded angry and violent even through a speaker the size of a silver dollar. But almost everybody I know is angry and violent, so I wasn’t impressed.

Dicky got his part right this time though, and up we went, single file. We got almost to the top before Marvin looked over the rail. “What the fuck you want?” he asked me. I couldn’t see his right hand so I assumed that’s where his gun was. I had my left hand hidden so he couldn’t see mine either.

“Mr. Huggs has questions for you,” I said in my friendly voice.

“Why don’t he ask ‘em himself?” Marvin said through his cookie duster mustache. Tough guy. Stupid too, like most tough guys.
His white tee shirt had food stains on it and the sleeves of his black leather coat were too long. Where the hell did he find that pork pie hat? Marvin was a Pacino wannabe who managed to look more like Ed Norton of The Honeymooners.

“That’s my job. That’s what I do for Mr. Huggs. I keep an eye on things. You wouldn’t want him to be asking you questions, would you?”

Marvin thought about that and came to his senses.

He said, “I told him the job got fucked up. I told him we only got a grand out of there. He told me ‘keep it’. That’s what he said, ‘keep it’. Now what? He wants it back?”

Marvin shrugged his question, faking a New Yorker, both hands in front, palms up. No gun. I goosed Dicky forward and he moved up a couple of steps.

“Let’s talk about it. You have some coffee? Let’s have some coffee.”

Marvin grimaced, looking pissily petulant, totally unlike the murdering thug he thought he was.

“Well, OK. But I already told him about the job,” he said, turning away and heading for the kitchen. I stuck my .38 in the front of my pants and made sure my shirt was covering it. Dicky stood there looking over his shoulder at me, waiting for instructions, being a good boy, the idiot. I went around him and into the darkened living room.

Marvin evidently didn’t know how to keep a woman around. Papers and trash covered everything. An overflowing ashtray, porno mags and a bong dominated the coffee table. The windows were blacked out by aluminum foil. The ambience was well aged Domino’s and burrito farts.

In a gesture toward--something, Marvin kept a large, barely populated fish tank. Sunken in its murky interior was a bigger than life-size ceramic skull. A goldfish finned sleepily inside one eyehole. I was watching the fish gulp water and push it through its gills when I heard Marvin shuffle into the room. I turned to find him holding an enormous black .45 close by his ribs, pointed straight at me. I could tell he was scared and didn’t know exactly what would happen next. I knew though. I knew I was going to kill him next, right after he told me where the money was.

“Geez, man. What’s up with the cannon?” I said.   

“Huggs sent you here to kill me,” he whispered around the lump in his throat.

“Well, yeah, maybe, but that doesn’t mean I have to do it.”

“Bullshit, man! You think you’re gonna kill me and take the money and that’s gonna be it!”

He paused, his upper lip jumping around under his mustache, his chest rising and falling so fast I knew he had to be dizzy.

“Well, I ain’t no bitch, man! You’re gonna have to work to get that 50 grand today!”

He knew as soon as he’d said it he’d messed up. Mr. Huggs had told me he thought the place held 20 max.

I said, “You know, Marvin, 50 K is a nice chunk of change, and I understand why you don’t want to just turn it over to Mr. Huggs even though he is your boss, and he did give you the setup. But let’s say I went to him and told him your story was true, that the job was blown up, and you almost got caught, and you really did have to leave with only a grand. Let’s say you give me 15 and you keep the rest, and Mr. Huggs lets you live, and later you and I do some more jobs like this together. What do you think, Marv?”

“I think you’re bullshitting me! Why would you want to work with me? You got it made with Mr. Huggs. You’re his freakin’ pet, dude.”

I reached across my chest to get a cigarette but stopped before I got to the pocket.

“You mind if I smoke, Marvin?” I asked.

He nodded, and I sat on the edge of the couch and pulled out a cigarette. I tapped it on the grimy coffee table and used the grinning skull lighter he had there to get it going. I guessed that skulls were a theme at Marvin’s. I took a drag, sat back and looked long and quiet at him. When he started to get jumpy I talked to him some more.

“Mr. Huggs got where he is by being a hard ass, Marvin. I don’t have any special in with him. He uses me because I have always done what he’s told me to do.”

I took another drag, looked Marvin over as if I was considering the next thing to say.

“I respect Mr. Huggs because he’s the top cat. But maybe I’m like you, maybe I feel like he doesn’t respect me. Maybe I want a better payday too, you know what I’m saying, Marvin?”

I could tell he was going for it. He was starting to dart his eyes around the room, and his thinking was becoming visible. I looked at Dicky and smiled. I wanted to get both of them involved. Dicky grinned his dumb grin, then shut it off and stood with his hands crossed in front of his crotch, the way cops at parade rest do.

“So, what do you say we just divide up the money right now?” I said. “We’re all here, and afterwards I can just go talk to Mr. Huggs and you can go about your day, cleaning your fish tank or whatever.”

Marvin’s eyes started to go wild. Side to side, up and down, anywhere but right at me.

“Well, it ain’t here right now,” he said. “I have to go get it, so why don’t I meet you later at the Doggy Diner on Mission and we can figure out the split.”

“It’s in the fish tank, Billy,” Dicky said. “He put it there last night after we got back.”

Marvin didn’t even think. He just shot Dicky in the face, and then turned to do the same to me. That left plenty of time for me to get the .38 out and drill him, so I sent one his way.

I straddled him and looked down and watched him croak, and then I shot the fish tank. A lot of water came out of it, and more fish than I had realized were in there, all mixing with the blood that was leaking from Marvin and Dicky. The landlord was going to be pissed about the water damage, but he never should have rented to an asshole like Marvin to begin with. I scooped up the big goldfish I’d been watching and dropped him in the kitchen sink, plugged it and ran some water. Maybe some sensitive cop would take him home. Then I went back to the big messy puddle on the floor.

The skull was hollow and the 50K was all in hundreds and nicely wrapped in a zip-loc bag inside. I looked around briefly and let myself out. I strolled to my Mini and took my time about getting in, just as if I hadn’t killed a guy only moments before. I spun the Mini around in the street and headed for North Beach. The next person I had to see would be at Gino and Carlo’s. I thought about the will as I drove. I wanted to get the wording just right so it would stand up in court if need be. 

*

When I walked into Gino and Carlo’s I spotted Felicia Fontenot in the booth next to the juke box and the pool table, in the corner where she could watch everybody. A mean looking ex-con named Cholo Reyes, Al Mogan’s long-time attack dog, was sitting with her.

The face and neck tattoos on his grotesquely muscled body wrapped in a red, green and yellow jacket apparently made of upholstery material are the first things that grab you about Cholo. Factor in the multiple gold necklaces and stainless steel teeth along with a bleached Mohawk and billy-goat chin whiskers though, and he easily walks away with anyone’s stupidest looking man of the week award.

Then who am I to judge? I’m an old school criminal and I happen to believe that attracting attention is the last thing I want to do. I headed to the bar and stood there a moment, watching. I carefully avoided looking at Cholo so I wouldn’t bust out laughing.

It looked as if Felicia was asking her boothmate questions, one right after the other. That would be typical of her. Felicia has a need to know, and it has served her well over her career as a source. She knows things, can get you things, and is bent just enough not to care why you want what she can get. If you don’t know her, you think she’s a good looking older broad who is friendly and talkative and acts like she just might go home with you when the dump closes. If you do know her, you know that bit of intrigue is how she gets the things she wants from you before she gives you what you want from her. And whether she goes home with you or not is strictly her decision.

Felicia and I had hooked up once and it was sweet, but circumstances had never been right again, as far as I was concerned anyway. But I knew she’d been burning for me a long time. Looking at her now I knew I needed to make time for her. Maybe when this deal was done.  She spotted me and waved me over. Cholo got up and went out the side door without even speaking. OK by me, I have enough friends already. None.

I sat down and she started right up.

“Hey, Billy, how you doing? How’s Mr. Huggs? He come back here after L.A. or head up to Reno? You get that thing straightened out with Dicky and Marvin? What a couple of morons. I heard they messed up bad. Hey, have you heard anything about Al Mogan? Cholo just told me that he-”

“Yeah, Felicia. Want another Amaretto and soda?”

That stopped her. “I do, yes, thanks.”

I signaled to Shakes the bartender to bring us two of the weak tea she was drinking. They were both for Felicia. I quit drinking over a year ago, after I killed someone I didn’t want to. I looked back at Felicia and waited until she saw I was not about to be pumped. She settled down and put a big tender smile on her face. Everything on her is big. Big brown eyes, big soft looking lips, big wild yellow hair, big hoop earrings, big--well, you get it.

“Felicia, you know how Mr. Huggs is always collecting things? Disney memorabilia and Bryer horses and German beer mugs and all that?”

“I know! It’s so cute! I mean, who’d ever think that a guy like him would collect stuff?”

“Cute? Huggs?”

“Yeah. Here’s a guy who’s so--disagreeable, if you know what I mean, and then he’s got all these little porcelain things, and music boxes, and--, you just don’t know what people are really like. Did I ever tell you what Al Mogan coll--”

“I don’t want to hear what Al Mogan collects, Felicia.”

She sat back, disappointed. “I thought you and Al--”

“I don’t want to hear what you thought about me and Al freaking Mogan.” Gently but firmly.

She got it. I leaned forward and held her hands across the table. Nice soft, warm hands with long colorful nails that looked like tiny pieces of art. A note of Gardenia perfume drifted my way. I almost ignored it.

“What I want from you is some help. I want to buy Mr. Huggs a present. Something collectible that he doesn’t already have, a vase or an urn maybe, hollow inside, good sized but not huge. I want a few different ones and I want them to be expensive. I’ve got 20 grand for you to do it with. You get them for me and then you keep whatever you don’t spend. How’s that sound?”
A smile lit up her face and she gave my hands a squeeze. She leaned forward, her boobs resting lightly on the table, accentuating her cleavage even more than her lacy black bra already was.

“Billy, you really know how to make me happy,” she said in a kind of whispery growl.  “I love shopping and I love working with you. You know you’re my favorite, don’t you, Billy?”

I straightened up and tried to pull my hands away but she clung on to them, and as I rose from the booth she came out too, and pressed all of her abundant self against me. One hand went behind my neck and pulled my face down to hers, where her luscious lips were waiting. I couldn’t resist, and with a dozen gnarly late morning drinkers watching, we kissed like we were alone in a motel room on Lombard Street. Felicia gave me just the right amount of tongue for the situation, and her perfume subtly dizzied me. I knew I’d better get going or we would certainly be heading for Lombard or somewhere else less public.

I said, “I need those quick, Felicia. When can you get them?”

She put her hands flat against my chambray shirt and pushed herself softly away. In her business voice she said, “Do not concern yourself, Billy Day. You will have them today, right here, 4 o’clock. You can give me the money then. Can I ask--?”

“No, you can’t,” I said, and eased it with a smile. “Maybe later, OK?” She nodded, her eyes and lips shining.

As I went out the door, I heard one of the clowns clinging to a bar stool say, “Hey, Billy! Want me to finish her off for you?”

And I heard Felicia fire back with a derisive laugh, “There ain’t a man lived yet can do Billy’s work, little guy.”

I could hear the guy’s buddies hooting at him as I got in the Mini.

*

My next step was to dump the gun in the bay and then head home to my flat on Russian Hill to change clothes and get another one. As I waited to turn right onto Columbus I spotted a midnight blue Range Rover parked in the yellow zone in front of the U.S. Restaurant. The inimitable Cholo Reyes sat in the driver’s seat reading the Chronicle Sporting Green. He glanced up toward the restaurant, tossed his cigarette and ran his dark tinted window up. I knew who the scumbag was waiting for.
Sure enough, Al Mogan strolled out of the U.S. He looked tanned and prosperous, arrayed as he was in an Armani suit. He paused on the sidewalk to pick his teeth and make sure he was seen. I saw him alright, and I had to laugh because broken-nosed, gap-toothed Micks just don’t look right in Armani.

Al had come up with me in Noe Valley and had gone on to all the local resorts; San Bruno County, Soledad, even a short stay at Q. Once he learned how to avoid the crow bar hotels though, he rose fast, becoming Mr. Huggs’ second, and my boss. When the L.A. operators beckoned, he dropped us like an ugly duckling teenager drops her loyal boyfriend after the quarterback finally calls. It looked now like the Smogtown gig had been a good move for him; the driver, the car, the suit and the pimping strut all contributed to that effect. I still knew him as the spawn of alcoholic deadbeats from 29th Street; someone you couldn’t trust to send to the store for a six pack and bring you back the change. It dawned on me that maybe he had ferried the scag up from L.A. and was hanging around playing big shot to those who gave a shit.

When the light changed, the guy on the Harley behind me cranked it up to wake me, and I scooted the Mini onto Columbus. I dodged cabs and Muni buses through the gauntlet at Washington Square and headed for the wharf. I don’t know how many guns have been tossed into San Francisco Bay since the Europeans arrived but I know that a ton of them were mine. Another one was about to settle into the nasty bay mud below the fishing boats.

*

When I pulled up in front of my three-flat building on Greenwich Street I saw a midnight blue Range Rover again, this time turning the corner at Leavenworth. Maybe there are lots of them, but if this one was the same one that had been over on Columbus a while ago, I had to be careful entering my flat.

I coasted the Mini into the basement garage as quietly as I could and left the tilt-up door open while I checked the front door to the flat. It was undamaged and still locked. I went back into the garage, closed the door quietly and went up the back stairs to my top floor flat. Whoever was in there must have gone up the same way, and I hoped to surprise them by not using the front door. Sure enough, the back door had been broken open. It must have made a hell of a racket, but since my neighbors both worked days, the building was probably empty when Cholo or his partner, or both, went in.

But the place was empty. Silent, sunny and thoroughly trashed. As I walked through the rooms and looked at the mess I could tell they had been looking for something in particular because nothing was stolen. Every drawer, cabinet, closet, trunk and chest was emptied, and looked to have been done so in a frenzy. The valuables were untouched. The other thing I noticed, in every room, was a faint scent of Gardenia.

I kicked the stuff from around my desk so I could pull out the chair and sit down. I sat for a minute and listened to the fridge hum in the kitchen and then I knew what I wanted to say. I fired up the computer, opened a new Word document and typed up the will. A few short sentences was all it needed. I printed it and folded it together with an extra blank sheet of paper. Then I went to my safe and got out a 9 and a shoulder holster and strapped it on. It was time to collect my collectibles.

*

Gino and Carlo’s was busy as usual at this hour. The day job people were pouring in after work and starting their real lives. Lots of smokers were hanging in the street, so I double parked the Mini and asked a kid I knew to stall the meter maid if she started to ticket it. I wouldn’t be long.

I went in expecting to see Felicia in the booth and I did. Next to her was a cardboard box about the size of a very large microwave oven. Next to that was Al Mogan.

She saw me almost as soon as I came in the door and she followed me with her eyes all the way through the crowd. Al saw me too, and he pasted a big grin on his chimpy pan and stood up, hitching up his pants and swiping at his mouth to grab the slimy dead cigar he had stuck in it. He made the Armani look like off-the-rack Salvation Army. He stuck out his paw and I slapped at it in imitation of a soul shake. We hadn’t been friends for years.

“He-ey, Billy,” Felicia said, sounding too perky. Something bothered me about the look in her eyes. Al said something inane about long-time-no-see-old-pal. I said something vague in return. He grinned at me. I stared back. Then I said, “Let’s go,” and picked up the box. It was heavy. Unless Felicia was a lot stronger than she looked, she must have had someone carry it in for her. She looked startled, but she only thought for a second and then grabbed her purse and jacket and slid out of the booth. I didn’t look at her again until we were on Columbus, stopped at the light on Broadway.

“So you working for Al now or what?”

“Cholo works for Al, Billy. I don’t work for anybody, and you know it. Where are we going?”

“If you’re not working for him, you must be working with him then.”

“OK. Spit it out. What’s bugging you.”

“I know you were in my flat today. I smelled your perfume and I saw Al’s Range Rover on my block. You and Cholo, and maybe Al, trashed my place and you’re about to tell me what you were looking for.”

Felicia went silent, though it must have been pretty noisy inside her head. A little tiny liar lady was in there screaming for help. I didn’t really blame her because in Al and me she was caught between a couple of guys who wouldn’t hesitate to blow her brains out.

I let her stew as I drove. I kept one eye on her and I could see her trying to figure out what to do. She had chewed off all her lipstick and ruined her hairdo and was starting to go after her nails when I asked her a different question.

“Why’s Cholo following us, Felicia?”

I was headed past the East Bay Terminal, barreling up Second Street toward Rincon Hill. She turned and looked out the rear window. When she looked back at me I could see she was scared. I didn’t care whether it was me or Cholo she was scared of, just as long as she was good and scared.

“Al’s been forcing me to help him, Billy. He knows that you and Huggs got a shipment and he is using me to help him take it from you.”

“And exactly how did he find out about the shipment, Felicia?”

“He said he knows somebody on the other side of the deal, one of the guys who set it up with Huggs. And I owe Al big time, Billy. He saved me from something horrible. I made a mistake, and--”

I realized she might be telling the truth about this much anyway. Al wouldn’t want her to know he was the mule because if even a rumor of involvement by him in the theft of the shipment got back to L.A. he was a dead man. Or a life long resident of somewhere far, far away and nowhere near the good old USA.

“You can tell me about your debt to Al later. Right now I want to talk about how you were rubbing your tits all over me and making me think it was for real when actually you were whoring for Al because he told you to get next to me and find out where I was going to be cutting up the junk.  I don’t know, maybe you were unaware that Al left Mr. Huggs and works for the L.A. group now, and perhaps he didn’t tell you that Mr. Huggs was supposed to get a shipment from his new friends. Maybe you didn’t know that stuff, but I kind of doubt it, Felicia. And then just maybe also, you and Al think you can take the shit from me.”

She channeled her fear to anger. Sometimes putting on a show of anger is a good cover for what you’re really feeling. I let her spew her outrage at my mistrust of her while I concentrated on losing Cholo.

The Rover was no match for the agility of the Mini on Rincon Hill with its one way streets and narrow alleys. I skated around turns and flew through alleys and doubled back on him repeatedly. When he finally fell back over the brow of a hill I made a sharp turn into a parking lot under an on ramp to the Bay Bridge and eased in between a couple of gigantic SUVs. I waited and listened to Felicia’s heavy breathing until I heard him roar past. Then I turned and stared at her.

She looked at me and I looked away. When she leaned toward me and hollered, “What!?” I chuckled, locked the doors, pushed the seat to the end of its track, turned toward her and stared some more. When she was almost ready to jump out of her skin, I said, “Give me that little .32 you carry in your purse.”

“No fucking way, man!”

“I just want to borrow it. I forgot to bring mine.”

“Yeah, right.” She glared at me, not trusting me at all.

“Seriously. I was so mad at you I walked out without it.”

Looking at me sideways, she put her hand in her purse and left it there. “What are you going to do with it?”

“What do I usually do with guns?”

Now the wheels were really spinning. This was fun.

“You think I’m going to hand it over and let you shoot me?”

“I told you I wanted to borrow it.”

“And you won’t shoot me?”

“I’m going to get the shipment, Felicia. I need a gun.”

She pulled the gun from her purse, holding it between thumb and index finger like it was a turd. I reached across her lap and opened the glove box.

“Put it in there.”

She did, and I closed and locked the glove box door, unlocked the car doors.

“Get out,” I said.

“Get out?”

“Yeah. Take a hike. Get lost. Fuck off.”

“You can’t just--”.

“Yes, I can, now shut up and go.” I settled in as if I was going to drop off to sleep. She sat a minute and then said, “Alright then,” and she gathered her bag and her wrap and struggled out of the car. She paused before closing the door. “You motherfucker!” she said, and slammed it hard enough to rock the car on its suspension. I stayed like I was and listened to her high heels tapping and tripping away on the broken pavement of the parking lot. Then I took a nap.

*

I woke up with the rest of the plan fully formed in my mind. I’d have to find Cholo before I would be ready to see Huggs, so I drove around North Beach looking for the Range Rover. Naturally, I found it parked on Grant Avenue in front of The Saloon, the lowest dive in the Beach. Al and Cholo would be inside, enveloped in its ancient piss and Lysol smelling haze and lording it as if they were at Fior d’ Italia instead of a den of druggies and petty crooks.

A blues band called Perry and the Pumpers was making a racket in there and I could see through the window that my boys had choice seats at the inner end of the bar. They were turned around facing the band so that Al could tell the harp player what tunes he wanted to hear. Al was keeping the band and the table of their chicks supplied with pitchers of the house special flat beer and bowls of rancid peanuts. Big spender, that Al.

An aged hippie was hanging out by the front door listening to the band, bumming change and savoring a quart of Old English. I checked him for cognition by taking a twenty out of my wallet and waving it at him. He shambled over to me in what may have been his idea of a rush.

“Whaddaya need, bro?” he slurred.

I stepped back from the stale stink of patchouli oil layered over b.o. and tobacco breath and asked him, “Do you know who Al Mogan is?”

He pointed his untrimmed Van Dyke toward the door and said, “Hell, yeah! He’s sittin’ at the bar with Cholo. You a tourist?”

I didn’t even want to wonder why he’d asked that question, so I plunged on. “I’ll give you this twenty to tell him something for me.”

“You gonna pay the cover charge too? Five bucks to get in, man.”

I gave him another twenty. Judging by the look on his face I probably could have told him to blow me right then and he’d have done it. I shuddered at the thought and kept going.

“Listen good now, Cheech. Tell Al that Felicia is outside and she wants to talk to him or Cholo. Tell him she said she doesn’t want to come inside because it’s too loud, and she’s waiting in the alley. Got that?”

“Yeah. Hey, you and her want some weed for later, man? I got some killer Mendocino buds.”

“No, I’m good. And Cheech? If I were you I wouldn’t hang around after you talk to those guys.” I knew they’d be looking for him after the little meeting I had planned. He smiled at my naivete, and headed inside to talk to his good buddy, Al.

I turned up the narrow alley next to the building and walked to the deep-set doorway where the bar’s trash barrels overflowed onto the cobblestones. Rats scurried, and the smell rose in a cloud that made me wish I had some of the hippie’s patchouli to cover it. I stepped into the shadow of the doorway and waited.

In a surprisingly short time I saw Cholo’s distinctive silhouette pause at the mouth of the alley and peer in. He looked like an NFL linebacker would if they were allowed to wear ass-dragging baggy uniform pants. The fucker was enormous. I would only have one shot at this. I got the 9 out and held it by its barrel.

Cholo swaggered by, close enough to touch. So I touched him. On the back of his tattooed head, with the butt of the gun, as hard as I could swing it.  He went down like a bear with a slug in its brain. I leaned over and looked at him close. He stunk too, but I could tell he wasn’t totally out of it so I hit him again, even harder this time. He relaxed all the way and pissed his pants.

I drug him into the doorway among the garbage cans, turned him over and ripped a piece off his Raiders tee-shirt. I used it to take his snub-nosed .38 from his belt and his wallet from his inside jacket pocket. Then I used my pocket knife to slice his carotid artery. His blood pooled nicely over the slimy pavement. Who would have guessed, I wondered; Cholo Reyes died in his sleep.

I ran uphill to the Kearney steps and then down them to Broadway. The Mini was in a valet parking lot next to Enrico’s. I used Cholo’s Visa to pay the tab plus a hundred percent tip, and then I headed for SoMa to have a talk with Mr. Huggs.

*

The light was on in Hugg’s office above his phony car repair shop, but now I wasn’t quite as confident that I could just waltz in and do this thing. Mr. Huggs would be no pushover. He came up hard, in an era after the Korean conflict when the Italians still ruled and nobody else could get in. He worked for his piece of the pie, did favors, extracted promises, paid his debts no matter what it cost him, and he always planned for the long haul. Now he was respected, even by the brothers and the Latin gangs who thought they owned the streets while he actually controlled the action in the city. He had his soldiers who did strongarm heists and B&E for him, but he left the petty drug dealers and the hookers to those who didn’t mind the hassle of it, while he sat back, invested his cash, and watched the payments roll in.

I understood all this, schooled myself in the history of it, treated him like the mentor I needed and played the game he’d played with the Italians when he came up. In his own vicious way he appreciated what I was giving him and our relationship was somewhat like a father and son, though without any modicum of love. I knew if I fucked up he would kill me and never think of me again. It would be nothing but his final teaching for me. He also knew I’d someday make my play, and with all that heroin sitting in his office, he was going to watch me very closely.

I slipped on my driving gloves, put my gun in the glove box, Felicia’s in my jacket pocket and Cholo’s in my hand. Then I went up the stairs quietly, two by two, keeping the momentum as I kicked open the door and went in with .38 in front. I knew he kept a .45 in a bracket under the desk near his right hand so I was hoping the rush would let me surprise him. It worked. He didn’t have time to alter his posture from reading some sort of business document. He dropped it and reached for the cigar in his mouth as I kept going right at him and stuck the gun in his face.

“Stand up and move away from the desk.”

He wasn’t scared at all. Mad as hell, though. He looked at me with a combination of hate and rage distorting his ugly mug and growled, “You stupid fuck. You fucking asshole, you think--”

My own rage surprised me. “Don’t call me any names, and get the fuck away from the desk, now!” I roared. “Over there, by the files!” This was a moment I’d waited for and it felt even better than I’d thought it would. I backed him into a corner so I could watch him while I snatched the suitcase from the table and set it near the door where I could grab it on my way out. I took out the will and waved it at him, tossed it on the bar.   

“You’re going to sit at the bar and copy this in longhand and then you’re going to sign it. After that, --who knows?” I couldn’t stop the smile from forming.

The first sign of fear showed in his eyes then. He knew what I was capable of since he’d seen me in action many times before. That was a good thing because I wanted his handwriting to be shaky, for authenticity’s sake. I waved him to the bar with the pistol and he moved clumsily to it, cringing away from me as he went. He slid his big ass onto a stool and looked down at the Word doc. on the mahogany bar top.

I went over and laid my gold Cross pen down and stepped away. “Why don’t you read it aloud for me?” I said. “I want to make sure it sounds good.” He read it in a quavering voice unlike anything I’d ever heard from him before.

“ ‘Al Mogan is here. He’s looking for the shipment. He’s going to kill me. I leave all the money and property to my son. Take care of your ma. My collection goes to Billy Day. Everything.’ ” 

He looked up at me with a trace of hope in his eyes. I wasn’t sure if he comprehended what he’d just read. Didn’t matter, he didn’t have long now anyway. I felt my smile fading. It was the end of an era but it didn’t feel like it. He was going to be just another dead crook when it was done.

“Copy it, sign it and date it,” I said. He fumbled for the pen, not taking his eyes off me.

“Billy. Let me talk to you. I can--.”

“Don’t bother, man. Just write.”

He did. I watched. When he was done, I read his copy, got my pen and the printout and put them both in my shirt pocket. I left the will on the bar. The cops would find it. Or his wife, that grasping bitch. I stepped back and watched Huggs from behind as he pulled his neck down into his shoulders and tensed, waiting for the bullet he always knew was meant for him. He didn’t turn around when he said, “Do it, asshole.” No crying, no begging, no flop sweat. Disappointing but not surprising. I raised Cholo’s .38 and pointed at the back of Mr. Hugg’s head. The silence in the room was thick as we both held our breath.

“Goodbye, Cornelius,” I said.

From the doorway behind me Al Mogan growled, “Fellas, fellas. Can’t we all just get along?” I could hear the gloat in his voice. I dropped the pistol before I turned slowly to face him and his Glock. I’d give him no excuses.

“Kick it over here.”

The .38 slid across the hardwood and stopped right in front of him. He kicked it sideways, under the coffee table, and rushed at me swinging the gun. He connected with the side of my head and I went down, faking worse injury than I had. He stood over me screaming, “Where’s the smack, you fuck!”

I couldn’t fake the pain of the kick to my nuts that came next. I curled into a ball and started taking deep breaths to clear my head. Pain was not unfamiliar, but dying was, and I needed to do what I could to save myself. From where I was I could see the suitcase sitting next to the door, so I knew Al hadn’t noticed it. I still had Felicia’s little .32 in my jacket pocket and the .38 was only a few feet away. This thing wasn’t over yet.

I got to my hands and knees, hoping to draw another kick. I got it, and used it to sprawl closer to the coffee table. I could almost reach the .38 now. Al came over and pointed his 9 at me, but started talking to Huggs.

“Tell me where it is or I blow his fucking brains out right here!”

“Go ahead. I would do it for you if I could.”

Al let that sink in. He stared down at me while he went on talking to Huggs.

“This punk stole the shit from you didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he’s got it somewhere and he came back here just to kill me. I have an idea where it is but if you want to help me get it we’ll have to work on him a little.”      

Al liked that idea. A big feral grin cracked open his mug. He looked like the cartoon leprechaun in the soap commercial. I felt the weight of the .32 in my pocket but I knew if I made a move he’d just plug me. I’d have to hope for Huggs to do something devious. His forte, actually. My prospects were looking up.

Huggs put one foot down on the floor, then the other. He stood up carefully, watching Al to see the effect. Mogan narrowed his eyes and shifted his attention to Huggs. I moaned and stretched a little closer to the .38. Inches away now.

“Where the fuck you going?” Al said to Huggs.

“Get a drink. I need a fucking drink. You know you saved my ass? He was about to kill me, man.”

Huggs kept moving as if he was going back of the bar, but I knew he was trying to get to his desk.

“You want one?”

“We can have a drink later. Right now you need to tell me where you think the shit is.”

“Up near Tahoe, I think.” He kept moving, altering his path just a little, heading for the desk. I reached and grasped the .38, held still.

“Bullshit!” Al shouted. “He ain’t had a chance to go up there. We been following him all fucking day!” Enraged at Hugg’s trickery, he started to go after him. Huggs dove for the desk, moving pretty quickly for a fat slob, but then his life was on the line.

Al fired at him and missed, leaped toward the desk. Huggs was under it with the .45. He emptied it through the desktop and Al went down in a heap, dead, as they say, as a mackerel.

I scuttled sideways and crouched behind a wing chair. I was back in charge now. I knew Huggs was out of bullets. I’d counted. If he didn’t have a backup when he came out from under the desk, I was out of the woods.

Of course he had one, but he didn’t know where I was so I had plenty of time. Time enough for him to know he’d taught me well, and then he was dead.

I didn’t have time to hang around and rejoice though, so I ran down to the Mini and got the box of whatever Felicia had bought. I ran back up and got the suitcase with its evil-ass contents on the bar and then put the bags of stuff in the nice antique Chinese funerary urns she’d gotten. They didn’t look like they were worth any 20 grand, but you never know with antiques.

They did look nice up on the top shelf next to some other old Chinese stuff he had. Hopefully they’d be cool there until Huggs’ inevitable probate period was over and I could come back for them. I had a good enough relationship with his kid that I could tell him to keep his ma from stealing my shit.

The final thing was to get Felicia back in line. I got her .32 out and put a bullet in each dead guy’s head and put it back in my pocket. We could talk later about how she wanted to proceed. The gun could rest in the bay or unexpectedly turn up in the office. I had a good idea of what she would choose.

I’d hate to leave San Francisco, but it would be foolish to hang around and let the L.A. mob figure this thing out. I was going to have to talk to them soon anyway, but once I got my inheritance I’d be gone for good. I’d sell the junk in Florida and get on a straight-through flight from Miami to Rio. It seemed like a good place to start out.
In the meantime I could figure out if I wanted to take Felicia with me.

THE END

BIO: Terry Butler lives outside of Hollister, California which is itself outside of almost everywhere. Some of his stories have been posted at Hardluck, Powder Burn and Flash Fiction Offensive as well as in Hardboiled Magazine.